


Let Go

by fishwriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Feels, M/M, Pre-Season/Series 03, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:35:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishwriter/pseuds/fishwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John just can't seem to let go of the memory of Sherlock. But really, he doesn't seem to want to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Memory

**Author's Note:**

> I'm drunk and writing Sherlock fic. Judge me harshly.

He was everywhere.

In the grocery store, John saw him as he passed the tea leaves.

On the sidewalk, John saw him as taxis drove by.

At night, John heard him in the quiet creaking of the building.

In his dreams, John felt his cool hand holding his own.

His therapist seemed to think that the best way to deal with Sherlock's disappearance was to let it go and move on, but John couldn't seem to bring himself to do so. Sherlock wasn't dead; he couldn't be dead. This was all part of some great master plan.

Some small part of him kept telling him to stop lying to himself, but John shoved that bitter voice down until it was drowned out by the memory of Sherlock's crisp, utterly confident monologues.

John shied away from conversation most of time, mainly because of the pity and sorrow he always saw dwelling in their eyes. Almost everyone thought Sherlock was dead, and he could feel the tension as they tried to get John to believe that. But he couldn't.

At least once every week he found himself staring down at Sherlock's grave stone, words piling up in his throat as tears gathered in his eyes, but after that first visit, they could never break through. Part of him knew this was unhealthy; part of him knew that this was just desperation and loneliness. His therapist kept telling him to let go, but how could he let go of the one man that made him feel? How could he let go of the one part of his life that was completely devoid of regrets? It was over too fast, and all he could do was to tell himself that no, there was no way it could just end like this. There was no way that the one man that he truly admired had succumbed to mere mortality.

And yet every day he woke up, and every day, the flicker of doubt grew stronger.


	2. Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am no longer drunk, and no longer do I have the blazing courage and confidence of vodka. Yet for some reason, I am putting up a new chapter. Please judge me as hard as you would like. m(___)m

Sometimes, it felt unreal.

The smallest everyday things felt like something out of a television drama.

As John stooped over to collect the shards of the shattered teacup, he couldn't help but feel disconnected from his body, from this whole life.

No one was there to sigh at his incompetence, or complain about the clattering of porcelain on tile. Somehow, without a witness, the reality of things became tenuous, as though at any moment it might slip away and fade into the atmosphere, leaving the world without the existence of the man known as John Watson.

Sometimes it felt as though it already happened, as though when Sherlock disappeared, John Watson disappeared with him. Sure, he felt himself walking around, eating, drinking, talking, sleeping, but sometimes it all just felt so hollow.

The broken remains of the teacup went quiescently into the trash, leaving John slightly surprised at his somehow uninjured hands. He grabbed a rag and knelt, mopping up the hot tea spreading over the floor.

His therapist said he was making good progress, though John couldn't quite bring himself to feel positive about that. It seemed that every day he thought more and more of Sherlock, but each day the thought became a little less desperately hopeful and a little more hopelessly resigned. The loneliness hurt a little less every day, but each day he _felt_ a little less.

He had stopped seeing Sherlock's silhouette on the street, stopping chasing after strangers or illusions or dreams on his way home from the shop, or on his way to the hospital where he had begun working. Even when he did see a tall, lanky figure swathed in black, he quickly quashed that little lightning spark of hope before it set his legs to running and his heart to aching.

To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure which he preferred-- the debilitating pain and loneliness, or the empty vastness that had begun to fill him.

But it was with a sharp sting that he realized he had another teacup sitting on the counter, steam curling from the top, that he almost didn't remember pouring. Feeling a dull tightness in his throat, John grabbed his coat and left the flat.


End file.
